That Horizon
by Oneirophobic
Summary: Jack Sparrow: A History
1. Evening Plans

Author's Note: 

I began writing for my own entertainment. I'll be thrilled, however, to hear that others have enjoyed this piece as well. =) 

As for the story: 

As far as I know, no one has made any serious attempt at putting down the life of Jack Sparrow before he succeeded in making an infamous name for himself in the Caribbean. Hopefully, I've stayed truthful to the character. Um.. Also, this is _not_ a slash, and will not develope into one. Slashes peeve me for some reason.. Especially those that are undeniably sacrilegious to a character. Seriously, people: who _really_ believes that Jack Sparrow is the romantic type? I'm not promising that some delicate situations will not arise later in the story(thus the rating, but I promise violence as well >P), but I will assure you that I'm doing my best in preserving our protagonist's persona. 

Disclaimer: I do not own "Pirates of the Caribbean," Jack Sparrow, or any other PotC characters who may eventually make their way into this tale. Also, most of the places and ships named in the story are fictional as well. It probably wouldn't hurt to do more research, but.. I'm too lazy. Maybe later. >) 

That Horizon

_"Not Much is known about Jack Sparrow before he showed up in Tortuga with a mind to go after the treasure of the Isla de Muerta" ~ Joshamee Gibbs to William Turner_

_________________________________ 

Chapter One - _"Evening Plans"_

It was a fair day indeed; a handsome respite from the past bleak weeks which had bred some of the most fearsome weather in half a decade. The faces of seafaring men still reflected the gloom. Excluding, perhaps, the boy.

There he had lain, resembling for all the world some lanky and disreputable doll made up to resemble a cabin boy and folded carelessly into a corner with a dry mop across his lap. It may be, of course, entirely feasible that the corners of his mouth were _not_ turned permanently upward in that toothily blissful grin; but not likely. He snorts, lips smacking in harmonious discord with the violent new onslaught of snores issuing from his person. Not likely at all.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, followed shortly by a shadow. A man shape turned into the doorway, squinting into the uninterrupted shadows cast through the room's interior. A match flared into life, revealing the sallow white-whiskered moon of a human face. Ambling drunkenly through the door frame, he called hoarsely,

"Boy?" Brow furrowing, he felt his way to the compartment's sole furnishing(aside from the neat row of cells along the far wall): a scarred, stained, and altogether thoroughly abused oak desk. Dropping the spent light and striking a new one, he bent to light the untouched tallow candle resting upon its uneven surface. Craning his neck, the sailor cast an eye about the brig. Unsatisfied and grumbling scarcely audible profanities under his breath, he shuffled grumpily to the cell at the far starboard side, occupying the only corner not touched by the candle's flickering glow. A figure was sprawled there; Snow-Whiskers paused momentarily. 

"UP!" He roared, driving the toes of his navy issued boots into the shoddily smithed enclosure in turn, driving up a storm of fiercely rattling bars. 

"Eh," a groggy voice declared, "I was only resting me eyes, mate." 

"Tha's 'sir,' laddie," the man growls, indulging himself in a brazen and noticeably rum-taunted belch, "I'd get started a'fore someone decides to tan your hide, whelp. Not all th' crew are as lenient as meself," he grinned, "As you should know by now." At this, the owner of the second voice rose, lurching and wincing into the light with mop handle in tow. As the figure lifted its face to the candle's illumination, the youth was revealed in full; for that was what he was, little more than a scrawny child. The mildly drunken expression of glee is quick to relight his face; dopy grin and gleaming eyes put on the finishing shine, mate. 

"My appologies, sir," he had circled almost casually to the man's right, "but I've other plans for the evening, savvy?" The final syllable was accompanied by a grunt as the youth hoisted the mop shaft up and over, the arch finishing at the base of Whiskers' skull. Gurgling incoherently, the old sailor sagged heavily into the floorboards before falling silent. 

He stood, motionless. Never, in the wildest fantasies of his nigh-fifteen years(it could have been fourteen or even sixteen, not even he was certain), could he have imagined the thing coming off so effortlessly. Cackling nervously at his good fortune, the boy relinquished his weapon and heaved the unfortunate heap into the nearest cell before turning the key in the lock, skipping fluidly through the door, and reattaching himself to the shadows. 

_______________

I realize it's a weak start. It'll pick up. I promise. =) 


	2. Jack Sparrow

That Horizon

________________

Chapter Two - _"Jack Sparrow"_

The young man squatted in the shadows, his dark eyes trained fiercely on the bolted door across from him. Waving away a bothersome lock from his forehead with an absent stroke, he waited.

-_-_-_-

Jack Sparrow didn't have roots, he was not capable of defining the words 'family and 'love', he had no friends to speak of, and he could care less. His early childhood was synonymous with the sea, as would be his entire life if he ever cared to take a look behind him in later years. Not that he ever did; it simply wasn't the good Captain's way. 

Like the bird, his name also held no earthly ties. He had chosen it with no inspiration but the jovially rum-slurred words of a portly tattoo artist. He had come across the bloke only this past autumn in a small island traders' outpost. The young vagrant could not resist the shop's appeal; it was stocked lavishly with the splendid luxuries of the orient. 

Sidling in, his attention had come to rest immediately upon a the stout little man, beads and ornate plaits covering the entirety of his dark beard and tangled tresses, seated quietly at one wall opposite a similarly decorated(but decidedly more tidy) individual. As he looked on, Jack observed the final delicate stages of the application of the tattoo to the back of the second man's left hand. Fascinated, the boy had waited until the customer had paid and made his leave; the latter had flashed a curious glance over his shoulder at the former before making a silent exit. The owner grinned(this was signified by a crinkling of the beady eyes, as almost every other inch of his face was obscured beneath a sea of ebony tangles), 

"What can I do for ye, son?" Ivory bisected the black brambles as his lips pulled back. Jack blinked, meeting the stranger's eyes. 

"Ah.. I wonder if you could fix me up with one o' those, mate?" came his amiable reply, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the door from which the first customer had exited. At this, the grin widened. He motioned Jack into the remaining chair, and the boy obliged eagerly. 

"What did ye have in mind?" His breath told of drink; rum, it would seem. Jack shrugged, starting slightly at the brief bark of laughter this elicited from the islander. The man became quiet abruptly, squinting almost earnestly across the table; he seemed to consider the young man carefully for an intent moment. "Forgive me, son, but ye suddenly reminded me of something peculiar." Jack questioned him with a quirked brow, gazing into the shopkeeper's deep cerulean eyes and flushed cheeks. 

"P'raps it was on'y the light. Really, it's naught of any real significance. It's just.." he stared back at Jack and uttered a decisive sigh, "I'll tell ye. It's really a tale worth hearing, anyways. You'll hear folks laugh over it now and again. Back afore I opened the shop(could've been some twenty years), this entire island was nearly brought to ruins by a lit'l bird what weighed far less 'n a pound." He reached for the boy's hand and absently peeled back the grimy sleeve as he spoke. "The damn lit'l blighter made it into the armory down at yonder barracks and, with the help of a few lazy sent'nals what were trying to shoo him out, blew the entire place to kingdom come. He 'scaped with naught but a singed tail." 

"And what does this have to do with me, mate?" Jack quirked a brow. The artist smiled. 

"That bird.. 'Twas a sparrow. One o' those 'ispanic ones. I swear that you look just like 'im." He had begun to trace a shape on the boy's forearm with his fingertips. 

Later, strolling along with a heart as light as his purse, the child turned up his face to the sun. He called into the wheeling flocks of gulls dotting the cloudless sky,

"You'll always remember this as the day, mates," he beamed, "that Jack Sparrow was born." The few individuals walking that dusty road in hearing distance gave wide berth to the lunatic halted in its center; the young man who seemed to be speaking companionably to the birds. 

Following this, Jack Sparrow had done all that he saw humanly possible to attain the freedom he so craved with every fiber of his being. On a whim he had joined up with a crew of traders working off the small town(called Puerto de Cielo, he later discovered) on a ship called _Seabird_. Three months and seven days later, he was entirely fed up with the entire business. Who wouldn't be? The daily routine of scrubbing, washing, and general order-taking was broken only by one or two bitterly meager meals. That's the life, eh? The goofy, self-satisfied grin was conspicuously absent. Jack's character wouldn't have allowed for much more; he was a time bomb, ticking nearer its deadline. At this point, most interaction between the other crew members and himself started with harsh words and ended in blows. 

"Bloody hell," he'd moan into the night from some precarious perch amid the rigging, "I'm through with this." In retrospect, it took him ages to realize exactly what he meant by those words. When he did, everything snapped back into focus. 

That was the same day he'd incapacitated and locked up Gilbert Norton. It wasn't an entirely necessary step in the plan, he'd mused later, but seeing as how the sickly and oft-intoxicated first mate had evidently decided his sole purpose in life was to propel idling cabin boys into action with his boot heel, his removal may have saved Jack from some later complication.

After fleeing the scene, he had made his way, cautious and silent, to hall outside the captain's quarters. Jack Sparrow cared for the captain of the _Seabird_ even less than he did for the blundering first mate. He was a hard man, Jack conceded, but his pride in the galleon and its crew was unfounded. In fact, it would probably cost him both. 

-_-_-_-

Jack Sparrow squatted in the shadows, his dark eyes trained fiercely on the bolted door across from him. Waving away a bothersome lock from his forehead with an absent stroke, he waited. No more than fifteen or twenty minutes had passed, and the tension was steadily coming to a head; he could describe it as nothing less than exhilarating. A few more moments passed before he jerked to attention at the sound of the door squeaking open on its hinges. _This is not how it was meant to be,_ he'd mused giddily, pressing himself deeper into one of the wall's two concave impressions as the click of boot heels crept past him and echoed down the passage, _I should be storming the castle._ He had little time to consider the thought any further. As though life itself were in jeopardy, he flung himself mightily to door and flung it wide without hesitation. 

Jack knew(from earlier observation) that the Captain did not secure the cabin in any way when he stepped out; this had made the boy confidant of his foolishness. It had apparently not occurred to Jack that it might still be occupied when he entered. He was greeted by a startled feminine gasp which curved immediately into a gentle query, 

"Who might you be, sir?" Stricken, he took a step forward to confront the woman. She was young, he saw. Perhaps not near as young as himself, yet still possessing of a youthful charm. She sat bolt upright in the bed occupying the greater portion of the cabin's floor space, bearing an expression as though she had just spotted something nasty crawl from between the floorboards. Judging by the bed dressings clutched in a protective cocoon up to her chin, she was by no means dressed for his company. "I'll scream for assistance," the woman threatened, her calm voice cracking ever so slightly; Jack took note of the muscles of her jaw working nervously beneath her handsomely flushed cheeks. Bending to turn the key already jutting from the inner lock, he gathered himself loosely; this done, he turned and swaggered deeper into the opulent bedroom, quite the puckish grin playing his lips. "Who-" the lady began, but the lad cut her off by offering up his hand in such a humorously businesslike manner that she would have laughed aloud with the absurdity of it had she not been out of her mind with terror. 

"You may call me Jack Sparrow, love. I'm jus' passing through. I won't inquire as to the circumstances surrounding your presence here if you'd do me the same courtesy, savvy?" She stared. They both may well have been figures chiseled in ice for the next moment or two. When it became quite obvious that the lady upon the bed would neither move nor reply, he mumbled a "right, then" before returning his attention to his initial purpose. 

The woman observed the youth with growing interest. He was not a grown member of the crew, but perhaps a

! _pirate_ !

passenger. No, a cabin boy. He walked; nay, he strolled the length of the compartment, his gaze fastening itself meticulously to any number of items; the pattern was invisible to her. After a painfully lengthy interval of silence, his attention seemed to hold on the ledge of a shelf jutting from the wall above and just to her right. Raking back the messy black wave of bangs from his eyes, he grinned triumphantly up at it. She shrunk back against the headboard as, without warning, the boy swiftly closed the distance between the two of them. 

"Pardon me, love," he gestured grandly above her, "but you're between me and me treasure." Jaw dropping, she used her legs to scoot and shimmy herself to the foot of the captain's bed, trailing her covers. "Hup!" he exclaimed, making the short leap to the mattress; it bounced momentarily, as though in protest to the dilapidated and thoroughly filthy boots proposing to trod upon it. Using a hand he placed over the headboard, he heaved himself up. Though this position was more than a little precarious, Jack retained a firm footing. Sidling up to the wall, he turned to stretch his arms up and over the target ledge; the idea, apparently, was to hook his elbows over it to support his weight while allowing for a satisfactory inspection. _If it holds,_ he thought grimly. It did; but that would have been the least of his problems. 

Jack's intuition had not failed him. Nestled against the wall beneath a blanket of dust, sat a small ornate box. He reached to slide it back towards him, as though it were some helpless prey animal pulled before the poised jaws of its hunter. He fumbled eagerly with the latch, snapping back the lid to reveal.. _To be continued.._

________________

I suppose this is as good a place as any to end the chapter. I'm working on the next one as we speak, friends. I _think_ that I know where it's going. I appreciate everyone's feedback. =) 

~_CS_


	3. Author's note

Author's note: The third chapter is _very_ near completion. After this one, however, I don't plan to continue for awhile; I'd like to try working on something original. If I get enough positive feedback, I promise to keep at it, though. Recently, I just have not been in the mood to write fanfiction for my own pleasure. 

Once again, I thank those who have already reviewed.

**Update** - _ October 3, 2003_

I do plan to continue. Inspiration for this story has not run out, but rather it has slowed down significantly. I appologize for delaying the third chapter. Though I'm a bit stuck at the moment, I should be publishing it within the next day or two. 

**Update** - _ October 5, 2003_

Contrary to what I had originally planned, the fourth chapter of _That Horizon_ should be published by Wednesday. I'm not yet sure about how soon the reader can expect to see a fifth and sixth. At this point, I have no idea how long this story will end up being. With possibly twenty years to cover, it could evolve into quite the project. 

**Update** - _ December 7, 2003_

It's been ages since I've updated. Uh.. Oops? Sorry. I was actually a little stuck. After viewing the film a few more times and becoming a bit more comfortable with the entire thing I've decided that I really wasn't content with what I had started with. I apologize to those of you that enjoyed the first few chapters in my little saga, but I would _really_ like to go back and change some things. I'm not entirely certain how large this 'facelift' is going to be.. I expect that it will at the very least extend into the chapters containing details about Jack's past. Expect these updates soon. Thank you for lending your patience. 


	4. A Pirate's Life

Remember that I don't have a spellchecker.. Forgive any mistakes. Also, I very much appreciate the reviews. I beg you to keep them coming. Thanks.

That Horizon

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Chapter Three - _"A Pirate's Life"_

As the girl looked on, she liked what she saw less and less. She had no way of ascertaining exactly what it was that the captain kept tucked away on the shelf that so interested the boy. Nevertheless, she could guess what his intentions were. Gathering her courage, she slid herself cautiously back towards the head of the bed with her eyes focused intently overhead. Following a brief moment of consternation in which the lady realized her propriety would be jeopardized should the coverlet decide to fall away, she rose to her knees. Inhaling deeply, she made a decisive lunge for her intruder's dangling ankles. She jerked with all the strength she could muster. 

He hadn't realized his mistake until the fingers had clasped him firmly above the heel. In the split second it took for her to yank viciously backward, fate spared Jack Sparrow only the time required to curse his adolescent arrogance. 

"Hey!" 

The woman managed to narrowly escape burial beneath the heap of distressfully threadbare clothing, thrashing limbs, and incoherent curses plunging into the mattress. Immediately after his shoulders struck, he bounced up once before settling heavily into the discarded coverlet. Which was promptly torn from beneath him. She shrieked. He managed to mask his surprise(and struggling to keep a very real roar of frustration at bay) by forcing all the youthful deviltry he possessed into one lecherous grin, 

"I appreciate the offer, lass," a knock sounded at the door; the girl hadn't heard the footsteps approach, "But I fancy that this is not the opportune moment." He sprung upright, the soles of his boots thudding dully as they met the floor. He lost no time in dashing for the latched porthole opposite the bed. 

"Mary, why is the door locked?" a sharp voice demanded from the corridor. Her head snapped around to the door with a cry. Jack, having successfully secured his escape route, also turned, 

"Your lover calls." The green eyes swung back at the sound, though Jack suspected she hadn't deigned to register the words; she gaped, 

"You're not considering escaping.. Not.. Not through _there_, are you?" As if to emphasize her disapproval, she glared toward the tiny, circular opening.

"You've a better idea?" Silence. 

"Alright, then. Good luck with the ol' captain, m'dear. Ta." He offered up a smart solute to the sealed door, heels clicking lightly together, before sweeping into a ceremonious bow for her benefit. Mary's jaw snapped shut, and whatever force had held her silent now fell away; she turned. She _screamed_, 

"Captain! There's a man in here! Thief! _Pirate!_" But that worthy had already vanished. 

The captain had forced the lock shortly thereafter. Once he gained entrance, he encountered no one but his concubine, said young lady doing her very best to disappear into the mattress. When he inquired as to what might have been stolen, she could only shake her head gloomily and point to the shelf. To her puzzlement, he had only laughed. 

-_-_-_- 

"Oh, yes; that was a completely necessary endeavor, mate," he chuckled, brandishing the bottle clutched loosely in one hand, "quite productive, as well." The young Jack Sparrow lay spread-eagled across the deck. This one-sided conversation continued with, "Have you quite satisfied your lawless impulses? No?" He grinned, "That's alright, mate. We-Auuggh." His eyes widened comically before a bolt of pain racked his skull. He grimaced, eyebrows drawn down into a "V." "Oy." The bottle rolled out of reach; his fingers immediately set about in a futile effort to retrieve it. Jack emitted an exasperated sigh before drifting into a restless sleep as the awakening sun mounted on that elusive horizon. 

When he had opened the box in the captain's cabin Jack had discovered a single rumpled envelope. He'd given it only a cursory inspection, sliding it through his shirt collar before the girl had chosen her moment to interfere. Wasn't he surprised to reveal his treasure as no more than a slim packet of gushing love letters? You bet. _It doesn't matter a bit. The entire point was to prove that it _could_ be done, was it not?_ He'd reasoned halfheartedly; distrustfully. This did not dampen his disappointment, especially when a much more compelling voice kept insisting, _You wanted treasure, mate. You wanted something that catches the sun when turned just the right way. Stop deceiving yourself._ The last thing he'd heard that night was.. _pirate_. _She was right,_ he'd mused, shuffling off to pinch a bottle of rum. 

His mind grappled with consciousness when the heat had reached the point of discomfort. The sunlight produced a gleaming aura across the surface of his olive skin, causing his eyes to water and squint in protest when the lids finally peeled open. He lifted his fist to scrub at them, only to nearly further blind himself with the corner of the envelope it still clutched. He ripped the pages from inside, tearing each leaf down the center before tossing them away in disgust. Massaging his temples, Jack watched as the sheets fluttered slowly back to the deck. He groaned. _Best lay low for a bit,_ he began to rise, _that harlot will have given the capta-_ he stopped; his eyes had caught on the corner of one of the letters. It had landed face-down, and the side now turned up boasted what he took to be a smudged diagram. Extending a leg, he pinned the fragment with his toe, sliding it within reaching distance. He scooped it up, fingering its edges gingerly as he bent to uncover its meaning. It depicted half of what appeared to be a grinning skull above and a portrait proclaiming itself to be Hernando Cortez below. In the scant column of text flanking these images: 

_curse was placed upon the treas_

gold of Cortez. It is rumored to re

ose who already know where it is.

The aspiring pirate cursed inwardly, scuttling about on hands and knees to retrieve the shredded paper. By arranging them in some semblance of order, he learned that the treasure of Cortez had supposedly been cursed, that it now rusticated upon some godforsaken island by the name of _Death_, and that said island was mighty difficult to locate. Apparently, whoever decided to confess their eternal love to the good captain(probably his wife) was not wealthy enough to afford writing paper. Either that, or they had merely proven a more inventive way of disposing of an old storybook. He folded his discovery neatly, tucking it back into his shirt. Jack Sparrow didn't think that he could put a finger on why, but the tale had piqued his interest. That other internal voice, however, had no such difficulty: _Aztec gold. An entire island of it. Aztec gold.._ It would remain a persistent, driving impetus for many years to come. 

-_-_-_-

Jack had managed to avoid both captain and first mate for three days and two nights. His good fortune honestly puzzled him. Hadn't the girl provided the captain with a thorough description of her tormentor, not to mention his name? Surely. _ Surely_. He'd spent the majority of this time in a brooding solitude. _Something will have to be done very soon,_ he decided, _something drastic. At the opportune moment, o' course; always at the opportune moment._ He cracked a nervous grin, raking back the hair drooping lazily over his brow. He fished a red scarf from the depths of his pocket, mopping up the bead of perspiration glistening there. Afterwards, he found himself staring fixedly into the damp rag for a moment, an expression of momentary bewilderment beginning to cancel out the formerly tepid smile. Matching the edges, Jack pulled it over his hairline and reached behind his scalp to secure the ends. It served as a quite efficient means, it turned out, to keep the ever-growing mop atop his head and bay. _Well,_ he reflected wistfully, _one great obstacle has been conquered_. It would not be, he would discover in only a few short hours, the only one that day. 

-_-_-_-

Early that evening, the inevitable occurred; Jack Sparrow was forced into a confrontation. As he'd expected, from Captain to deck hand, the crew had appeared(materializing from the light veil of fog reigning the deck that night) as a whole. The expression exhibited by Captain Edward Strong was unreadable. It could have been equally one of anger, joy, or even boredom. No one present, however, could mistake the arrogance projected like a thick musk from his person. 

He was certainly not a very tall man. While standing, Jack, an inch or two under six foot, came face-to-face with a perfectly smooth and gleaming forehead lest he lower his gaze to the Captain's unsettling blue one or lift it to risk a glance at the ridiculously gaudy hat perched atop an equally distressing wig. There was simply an appalling _newness_ about him that, after a few moments, began to make the prospect of leaping overboard very appealing. It called for all the willpower that Jack could rally to keep from squinting. 

"Jack. Your name's Jack. Jack what, may I ask?" The captain grinned brightly. At this point, something inexplicable took hold of the boy. He smiled, thrusting out his hand jauntily. 

"Jack Sparrow, at your service," he replied, then(almost as an afterthought), "Cap'n." The dangerous flash in the Captain's eyes was unmistakable. 

"Mr. _Sparrow_ then," he purred icily, "we have witnesses who would accuse you of insubordination and pira-" A very convincing guffaw of laughter erupted at this. From the boy. The man's hand was halfway to the haft of his sword before the need to regain composure registered. Making a show of wiping his eyes, the cabin boy immediately slipped into the quintessence of solemnity. 

"I don't doubt that you do, mate. But first, I'd advise you to look after your ship," he promptly spun on his heel, revealing the pistol tucked into the back of his trousers only momentarily before it was up and drawn into his palm. Before the softened crew could react, and in what may have been one fluid motion, Jack Sparrow thumbed back the flintlock and fired through the hull. The line of gunpowder, now painfully obvious and stretching the full length of the deck as it branched off into dozens of separate paths, blazed into life. 

In the hysteria which followed, Jack nearly made a clean escape. It took a few ticks before the men could stop stomping about long enough to make any attempt at apprehending the culprit. He fled, and immediately a bullet struck the mast not a foot from him. Splintering and groaning, it suddenly did not have the capacity to support itself. The boy cursed mightily and dodged around it but did not stop. Shots echoed and buzzed around him.. _ To be continued.._

__________

I know exactly where this is going in the immediate future. Hopefully, I'll be able to get the fourth chapter going soon. I hope that you enjoyed the third. 

_~CS_


	5. Out of Luck

This particular chapter is in two parts. I would have published them as separate chapters, but I decided that one long publication would be better than two very short ones. The second begins with 'As promised..'

Disclaimer: Gilbert Norton and Adrian Mason are mine. Jack Sparrow is not. 

That Horizon

________________

Chapter Four - _"Out of Luck"_

Jack Sparrow did not fully appreciate his luck until its formerly steady flow appeared to have dried up completely.

He had escaped the hell he'd produced that night with his life and an exhilarating sense of triumph as he basked in the heat of the dying ship. The length of the night seemed measured by the hight of the flames licking ash into the heavens; when their fuel had disappeared into the depths, the violent glow had been replaced by the softer warmth of the sun. At this point, the waves and gentle sunlight had rocked him into a blissful slumber. 

As it turned out, Jack had not been the sole survivor. They overtook the tiny lifeboat in the late hours of the morning as its burden slept. 

"We'll cut his throat _now_," a voice growled. Gilbert Norton stood, scorched and obviously the worse for wear, straddling the boats. His fingers clenched and unclenched convulsively as he glared spitefully down into the smaller of the two crafts. The others, huddled into a miserably close proximity, remained silent; all but the bloody whore. 

"Shouldn't we turn him over to the proper authorities, sir?" Norton scowled, and Mary withered before him, muttering dejectedly. The woman had every right to harbor low spirits; they all did. The white-whiskered first mate drew an ill-looking knife from his belt, turning it over in his nervous fingers before kneeling over the boy. As the blade dropped its shadow over the soft, dark skin, she winced. 

"Please, sir," she whimpered, "you wouldn't spill blood in front of a lady now, would you?" Grinding his teeth, Norton swung around. Unfortunately, the desperate words had already roused the lad. 

The view was enough to yank him forcefully back into reality. Jack Sparrow's fathomlessly dark eyes fixed upon the rust-spattered blade, narrowing fearfully as realization dawned. He did not move, but rather he concentrated his entire being on drawing in the salt-sweetened air in a slow and deliberate breath. Rolling back his eyes, he stared hollowly into a cloudless sky. A lone gull passed overhead; the corners of his lips twitched perceptively. 

"Good morning, Norton." The blade was withdrawn, and Jack marked the scrape of steel against its scabbard. Inwardly, he sighed relief and, swallowing hard, sat up. He was promptly hauled to his feet by the back of the collar. Turning him around, the first mate of the late _Seabird_ relieved him of his knife and spent pistol(both of which he tossed into the sea) before hoisting him roughly into the larger boat. Dusting his sleeves, Jack grunted, 

"A little hospitality wouldn't hurt, ma-" The kick came fast, and Jack nearly plunged head over heels off the opposite side of the boat. Instead, the momentum only crushed his nose into it with a sickening _crunch_, and dark blood ran thickly down his face. He stifled a cry, attempting to wrench himself painfully around to his back. He achieved only a glimpse of the solemn faces looming over him before another blow drilled his abdomen. This time, he did cry out. A roar of glee erupted from behind him, and all hell broke loose. Soon, Jack could only cough raggedly, choking out sweet flecks of the crimson fluid erupting from his gut. Then, for a good change of pace, Norton's meaty fist instead cracked his jaw. At least four teeth were shattered on impact. Before a great darkness could claim him, the boy retained sense enough to burn with the humiliation. 

-_-_-_-

It had required the strength of the three other men of the surviving party to restrain Norton. Though he fumed and cursed, the first mate had finally agreed to leave the maggot be. _For the time being. The rat will get what's coming to him when we reach port._ With much shuffling about, they managed to drape the youth's limp form over a bench. No one dared to tend to him. Jack had still not regained consciousness when, in the early evening, the sails of a second East India ship billowed over the horizon on that common trade route. Wakefulness eluded Jack until the next afternoon, when he awoke to the sight of bars. _Oy._

Because of the stiff, sickening pain tormenting his body, he resisted movement. Perhaps for the same reason, it took some time before Jack realized that the scent and rhythm of the ocean were conspicuously absent. Land ho. _We couldn't have been more than twelve hours out from the nearest military port.. What was it? It doesn't matter. I can't have been out for more than a day, then. Right?_ He glowered into the straw mattress, spitting blood indignantly. Grimacing at the severe shock of discomfort twisting along his jaw with this action, the boy lay still. 

Jack remained almost entirely immobile in his cell for the subsequent three days, balking at the idea of food but willing himself to take in water, albeit in minute quantities. A completely uncharacteristic depression swept over the youth within those seventy-two hours before the "trial." _It's not even the injuries, is it?_ He did not pretend to be ignorant of the real cause for his unrest. It was the inaction; the waiting helplessly for the inevitable. As it turned out, his uneasy vigil was not to be a long one. When the soldier came, Jack only opened his eyes in acknowledgement. The red-coated chap had surprisingly little difficulty in achieving the young pirate's complete cooperation. They emerged from the jailhouse and into a bloody sea of uniforms. Squinting against the glare of the mid-afternoon sun, he saw a figure detach itself from the crowd. The man was obviously an officer, but of what rank Jack could not begin to guess. He motioned to the prisoner's escort, 

"Release him, Lieutenant." When he had complied, the subordinate stepped away. Looking at Jack Sparrow now, one would not begin to guess that the _man_ before them harbored such turmoil beneath the rock-hard set of his high-boned(and terribly bruised) features and the frosty intensity of his gaze. Though his eyes watered and stung with sweat in the direct sunlight, he did not blink once. If this silent defiance discomfited the officer, he did not show it; much. Stiff and utterly devoid of emotion, he spoke clearly and audibly to all present, 

"Jack Sparrow.. You have been found guilty of an act of piracy against the East India Company, including the destruction of goods, a ship, and the murder of a its crew. For this, you _should_ face the maximum penalty. However, due to certain.. Complications," he flicked a

_(nervous)_

glance over his shoulder, "You will instead serve no less than a ten-year imprisonment on this very island. Consider yourself very fortunate; Lord knows why a wretch such as yourself should be spared while nearly an entire crew of good men met an unjust end at your filthy hands." With a scowl of disgust, he turned and swept away. Another figure emerged from the jailhouse then, brandishing a thin rod glowing with heat at one end; a branding iron; the kind one used to indicate the ownership of livestock. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead at the sight. However, even as they took up his wrist and the scent of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils, Jack Sparrow did not cry out. His thoughts were far away at that moment, and they roared with triumph: he would live. Perhaps a small trickle of luck still ran for the pirate after all. 

-_-_-_-

As promised, Jack was incarcerated that very day; the first of the nigh four thousand he was to serve. He immediately found the living conditions of the dungeon-like little block terrible and the food worse(when he finally managed to devise a way of chewing around the empty sockets in his gums). He dwelled little on the reason he had not been doomed to swing that day. 

The company, however, eventually proved to be quite instructive; as far as Jack was concerned, school was in. Petty criminals came and went in the first few months, and it wasn't until a full three quarters of a year had passed before he met with any long-term companions; most were pirates, some greater than others. However, not one soul spent a night in that prison without contributing to the boy's "education." One fellow, who would occupy the cell adjacent to Jack's own for the greater part of his last three years, introduced himself as Adrian Mason. He was a young fellow himself, no more than a decade Jack's senior, and seemed to nearly radiate with the aura of tidiness he kept about his person. This trait amused his young companion to no end. The bond shared between the two pirates grew deep. Mason's company broke up the monotony of an existence that, sooner or later, would likely have driven Jack Sparrow to an early death. Escape often crossed his mind, but it was not until his piratic ambitions outgrew his fear of the hangman that he was impelled to take action. 

A tropical storm had moved in during the summer of his fifth and final year residing on that cursed island. A vicious one, it was to be certain. Rain pounded at the building mercilessly, creating a din which made sleep all but impossible; whips of lightning cracked the atmosphere at semi-regular intervals. This was one of the rare occasions that, excluding the single guard(who was snoring contentedly despite the racket outside), he and Mason had the cell block to themselves. As far as he could recall, Jack had not been dwelling on anything in particular when his thoughts were suddenly intruded by and overcome with the vision of an entire island of heathen gold. The story hadn't crossed his mind in half a decade. Surprised, he tugged thoughtfully at his plaited beard before turning to regard his companion through their shared bars. 

"What do ya' say, Ade?" He grinned widely, "I'm not going to fly the coop all by me onesies." Mason, who had been gazing drowsily into the shadows of his own cell, sat bolt upright. A flash from the barred window served to reveal the smooth moon of the pirate's face interrupted by thick bands of darkness; it was positively glowing. He shot the dozing soldier a cautious glance before his eyes flicked back to voice his reply to the hunched silhouette of his friend, 

"Ye won't have to, mate. What did ye have in mind?" _To be continued.._

__________

I'm not sure about this chapter. I would've dedicated more detail to Jack's time in prison, but I was afraid it might become tedious. Also, it's hard to say when the fifth chapter will be ready for publication. _Please_ review; it gives me a reason to write. Thanks, everyone. 

_~CS_

_P.S. - Sorry about Jack getting beat up. =/ _


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